


Christmas With 666

by california_112



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Semi-Standalone Chapters, Short Stories, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21794236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/california_112/pseuds/california_112
Summary: The festive season comes to Rawlham- or rather fails to. When the Christmas post is not due to arrive, there are problems with supply for Christmas dinner, and a general lack of action prevails, our boys decide to make a Christmas for themselves.ABSOLUTELY 0% SPOILERS FOR ANYTHING
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. St. Louis Blues

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GQ5V4juFGg&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=4&t=0s)

* * *

With less than two weeks until Christmas, the pilots of 666 (Fighter) Squadron were arranged around the fire in mess, tired and bored. The previous week had been filled with two or more scrambles a day, and everyone was feeling the strain. Now a rest day had been ordered, everyone was taking advantage of it, and even Biggles could be seen reclined in a chair, frowning at the small, well-read paperback he was attempting to read. Finally, he gave up, and threw it lazily onto a side table, looking around at what everyone else was doing. Algy had been contemplating the piano, but was clearly too tired to move over there, and now switched his attention to the game of cards going on between Taffy, Ferocity, Henry, and Tex. Everyone else was watching the slow-paced game in various stages of slumber, except for Ginger, who was looking out a window at the waterlogged airfield, half-asleep against the steamed-up pane. At the sound of Biggles' book hitting the table, he turned around.

"Given up already?" he asked, breaking the previous silence, and making several people look up.

"How can you read that rubbish?" Biggles asked, "Adventure indeed. Like you haven't had enough adventure."

"I've certainly had enough adventures for the foreseeable," Tug broke in, reclining in his chair, "four sorties yesterday. Four!"

"And we're back on it again tomorrow." Taffy sighed. "What a life."

"'All's fair in love and war'…" Henry said, "…and cards, apparently." he added, throwing down his hand.

"That's why you haven't asked anyone out yet, then." Tex joked, then hurriedly looked away as Henry turned on him.

"I'm waiting for the right person!" Henry replied, hurt.

"Alright, settle down." Biggles said idly.

The mess returned abruptly to its silent state, but Ginger got up and retrieved the novel, opening to to a random page and reading it himself. A few seconds later he also put it down, and huffed in annoyance.

"You've had enough adventure too?" Tug teased, but Ginger wasn't listening.

"Are we doing anything for Christmas?" he asked, looking around at the distinct lack of decorations in the mess.

"If you want to lug a tree in, you're welcome to do so," Biggles invited, "otherwise, probably not."

"Except the usual Christmas lunch, old top," Bertie reminded, "can't have the big day without a good lunch, no, by Jove."

"Actually, that's in some doubt," Ferocity broke in from the back of the room, "I've heard that there have been some problems with supply."

There was a general groan, and suddenly Christmas became the main focus of the group.

"We can't do nothing, look you," Taffy said, "I was looking forward to a day of festivity."

"At least there'll be a few presents." Algy consoled. "Annoying though my mother may be, she does send some good fudge."

Before anyone could reply, Toddy walked in, and handed a slip of paper to Biggles. After reading it, he looked up with annoyance on his face.

"Things just got desperate, chaps," he said, "there's been a lot of snow in London, and all the mail's held up."

"There's still over a week until Christmas!" Tex said. "Surely stuff'll get here by then."

"After they dig them out of the snow- the roof of one of the main sorting-houses collapsed." Biggles said, crumpling the letter and throwing it into the fire.

The room was silent, until Ginger spoke.

"Why don't we get stuff for each other?" A quiet titter ran through the room. "Well? It looks like all we're going to get, if the mail's held up."

"There's something in that," Angus admitted, "and it doesn't have to be anything big."

"How will we pick who gets who?" Henry asked.

"Put names in a hat." Ginger said promptly, grabbing his forage cap. "I'll put in everyone, then bring the hat around for you to get a name."

The card game was resumed in better spirits whilst this was happening, and five minutes later, Ginger did his rounds.

"Would you look at that," Tex exclaimed, after opening his piece of paper, "I've got-"

"Let's keep it a secret, for now," Ginger suggested, "it'll make it more fun."

He looked around at people's reactions, seeing some looks of satisfaction, and some slight frowns of confusion. "Can everyone read my writing?"

"Just about," Ferocity grinned, "I'm just wondering that I'm going to get them."

"Oh, I know what my person's getting." Taffy said, with a chuckle.

"Well, you've got twelve days to do it." Ginger reminded them.

As the room was now in better spirits, Algy worked up the energy to walk to the piano, and began to pick out the tune of 'St. Louis Blues' that they had heard last time they'd been out on leave. To this musical background, everyone set to thinking of what they could get their giftees, and how to go about getting them.


	2. Take The 'A' Train

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mi2emUrIyQY&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=6&t=0s)

* * *

The following morning dawned bright and cold, and saw the squadron back on the readiness roster, as, to everyone's disgust, the grass runway had dried up enough overnight to make it usable. By the time the dawn patrol duo returned, the rest of the pilots were gathered in the chilly mess, everyone wearing most of their flying kit for warmth, and in preparation for the scramble that could come at any moment. A handful were reading books or magazines, but the majority simply stared out the window at the frost-covered landscape, half-dozing. Biggles was doing some light paperwork in his office, when the contents of one particular envelope made his eyes widen.

"Mr O'Hara," he called, "could I see you for a minute?"

The named froze at hearing that, and thinking that the CO had discovered why he had been late back from the pub last weekend, Tex prepared himself for the worst. He walked slowly into Biggles' office, and saluted as neatly as he could.

"Sir?"

"I've just got this letter from headquarters…you apparently put in for the…'Leave Lottery'."

Tex let out the breath he'd been holding. "Yes, sir." he replied. "Should I have not?"

"No, it's an ingenious scheme," Biggles said with a smile, "and you've actually won something on it."

"Really, sir?"

"A twenty-four-hour pass." Biggles said, handing over a slip. "Sorry I didn't see this before, or I'd have let you take it yesterday."

"I was too beat to do anything yesterday, sir." Tex said, pocketing the paper. "When would be a good time?"

"We're not due to get much today," Biggles said, consulting some dispatches, "the weather is bad over the channel and northern France."

"Today, sir? But we’re back on readiness."

"That's what I said. We can spare you for a day or so, and you can stay overnight somewhere, then come back tomorrow."

Almost floating, Tex went out and, after explaining to the others what had happened, packed some small kit in a duffle, and headed outside to meet the tender that Biggles had ordered to take him to the station. Waiting for it to arrive, he leant against the wall and stared idly at the sky, thinking about how a series of small gaps close together looked like a small formation of enemy fighters.

It took him a moment to realise- it was a small formation of enemy fighters! Dropping his duffle, he raced inside with a yell that turned every head.

"Scramble!" he gasped, "There's about ten Messers outside, and they're headed here!"

Everyone was on their feet in seconds, racing for the machines that sat waiting beside the runway. Tex didn't give a second thought to where he was going, and tore after his squadron-mates towards their aircraft, stopping only to pull on a parachute when he got to the side of the machine. He didn't have any other kit on, but the firing button was all he needed, and as they took off in formation, he formed up on Biggles wing to let him know he was there. If the CO had noticed, he didn't waste time making it obvious; saving time by not climbing for height, as the fighters were already so close, he led the squadron into the fray, guns blazing on the nearest black-crossed machine.

The fight was not a long one, as even though the enemy had height on their side, the battle was a foregone conclusion. All the pilots must have been new, as at the first sign of the Spitfires they broke formation, zooming away. They had obviously come over with the intention of shooting up the airfield, but none of 666 were going to let this happen. Taking a fighter each, the battle was hot and fast. Shooting from the Messerschmitts was more luck that skill, and they didn't take down any of the spits directly. Their flying was so haphazard that all of the Spitfire pilots missed their marks as well, and the rough chases that ensued were what caused the accident to occur.

One of the Messers, a Spitfire hot on its tail, came screaming down in an erratic dive, directly on course with Tex's machine. The fact that he was going after another enemy fighter meant that he didn't see it until too late, and at that point he was lucky to escape with his life. After a quick leap forward, the diver struck his tail unit and locked, the two machines going down like stones.

Thinking of the twenty-four-hour pass in his pocket, Tex threw open the cockpit cover and clambered onto the wing, flinging himself off into space. Just before he opened his parachute, he felt something hit him in the waist, and looking down, saw it was the pilot of the fighter that had rammed him, with no parachute. Pulling his cord before it would be too low to do so, he grabbed onto the enemy pilot to stop him from slipping. Even though they were on opposite sides, it was plain murder to let someone fall over two thousand feet to their death.

Watching the two doomed machines, he saw them crash awfully close to the farmhouse, and hoped that nobody had been hurt. They fluttered to the ground a minute later, and Tex detached the German pilot from himself before removing the parachute and getting everything off the runway. There was no fight in his prisoner, who seemed more terrified than anything else, which was understandable. He'd just crashed into another aircraft, then jumped without a parachute in the hopes of catching a lift to the ground, and was now a prisoner of war. Tex led him over to the farmhouse as the other Spitfires landed, and was met on the forecourt by Biggles.

"I saw that collision, are you alright?" was his greeting, looking Tex over critically.

"Just picking up a friend." Tex grinned, motioning to the German pilot.

Biggles raised his eyebrows as Tex explained exactly what had happened to the gathering crowd. Finally, he said "You've had a lucky escape, and no mistake!"

"You're telling me, sir." was the warm reply. "At least I'm still here to take my leave."

"Not until you've given a statement on our guest," Toddy broke in, "that and-"

"How long will that take? I could still get away before lunch."

"That, and the tender to take you to the station has been destroyed."

"What?!" Tex stared at the adjutant, incredulous.

"I'll show you." The whole squadron followed Toddy around to the side of the farmhouse, where a twisted heap of metal sporting two British wings and a German tail sat in a parking space. "That's what happened to your aircrafts after you two bailed out."

Had it been any other day, the situation would have been humorous to Tex, but as it was, he was furious. Shot down and missing leave. Luckily, a new tender was on its way, and he hadn't long to wait, apparently. He wiled away the time making a written statement, then playing chess with the German pilot, who turned out to be quite good. However, when the new tender arrived, he grabbed his duffle with abandon, and flew over to it. The driver turned to speak to him.

"I was going to have lunch before leaving, sir." he said, reaching for the door handle. "I'll only be-"

"You can have lunch when you get back, this won't take long." Tex replied, putting his foot down.

"But-"

"That's an order."

Tex hadn't pulled rank in a long time, but frankly it was worth it in this situation. He just wanted a bit of time off the station, properly away, and by thunder was he going to get it. The disgruntled NCO pulled away, and they were at the station twenty minutes later. Tex unloaded himself and his kit onto the platform, then looked around for a someone to ask about timetables. As he thought of it, a porter appeared.

"How can I help you, sir?"

"I'm looking for a train to London."

"Well, you can take the A train," the porter said, "that's due in about twenty minutes to half an hour."

Thanking him, Tex took a seat on the platform, and spent his time reading all the posters he could see, inviting him to join the army and save bread. The train arrived at the earlier time, to his satisfaction, and he boarded feeling very content. An evening in London. He could see a show, stay overnight in a hotel, then come back up in time for lunch the following day. Speaking of lunch, he'd left Rawlham before having any. He wondered what the train could offer him…

His thoughts were interrupted by the slowing of the train, and as it drew to a standstill, Tex stood up and looked out the window. There was some kind of obstruction on the track, meaning that they could go no further; 'just what I should have expected', he thought. Finding a guard, he asked what the problem was.

"There's an unexploded bomb very near the tracks ahead," he replied, "we can't pass until the bomb squad arrives."

Tex let out a long-suffering sigh, and picked up his duffle with slow deliberation. As he climbed off the train, he recounted his woes to no one in particular.

"I've been scrambled, shot at, shot down, taken a prisoner, had my car demolished by my own Spitfire, and now this." he slung his duffle over his shoulder and started walking. "You know what? I'll walk to London if I have to. I just can't seem to catch a break." So saying, he carried on beside the tracks, following the line to London.

About two hours later, he was still walking, and the train had not yet passed him. He’d spent some of the time considering what to get as his gift, but with no luck. It was now beginning to get dark, he was regretting his moment of hot-headedness, and his feet were giving him real pains. As a general rule, pilots took no special joy in walking; they liked flying, and Tex was no exception. Reaching a level crossing as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, he sunk down on a tree stump. Seconds later, the train passed him, and he described his annoyance in a handful of choice colourful words. As he was wondering whether or not to go on to London, and where in fact he was in relation to his goal, he heard the sound of an approaching car.

His first thought was that he could ask the driver where he was, and accordingly he stood out to flag the vehicle down. However, it was slowing down even before he'd got his arm out, and as the car pulled up next to him, Tex was very surprised to see Biggles in the front seat.

"Mr O'Hara, I'm glad I caught you." The CO opened, with a small, sad smile. "I see that you haven't made it to London yet."

"Are you here to give me a lift, sir?"

"Yes, but not to London." Biggles replied. "You're being recalled to Rawlham. Before you ask, you would have been bought back from London even if you'd made it there."

Tex sighed a deep sigh of resignation. "Something special, sir?" he asked, retrieving his duffle from beside the tree stump.

"Air Commodore Raymond has a job for us, and he requested the whole squadron."

"I might have known." Tex muttered darkly, sliding into the passenger seat.

"What was that, O'Hara?"

"Nothing, sir."

The car pulled away, executed a neat three-point turn, then sped away towards Rawlham, and Raymond’s newest special operation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost forgot, but not quite


	3. Little Brown Jug

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOG89TrL4Vk&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=13&t=0s)

* * *

The next sunrise shone over a distinctly barren airfield at Rawlham, lacking even the usual handful of aircrew working on any damaged machines. The squadron's Spitfires were fairly damaged; however, the previous night and a large portion of the early morning had been quite harrowing, and the whole station was still asleep. Peace reigned, leaving the birds unstartled in their trees to finish the morning's conversations, and a couple of telephone rings unanswered.

In fact, it was nearly half past nine when the first person awoke, and even then they simply glanced briefly at the clock, saw that they hadn't yet had five hours sleep, and rolled over for at least another hour. What roused them all around midday was the smell of lunch, which bought ten tired airmen stumbling into the mess, mostly still in pyjamas, with the occasional tunic acting as dressing-gown. Not a word was spoken before a large tureen of soup and a large quantity of bread were polished off, and the first remark was made by a satisfied Taffy, after pushing his plate away.

"How about that, then."

"How about what?" Tug asked, good-naturedly, eyes half-closed.

"That's the latest I've ever got up in this war- and the best soup I've ever tasted." Taffy replied promptly.

"It wouldn't taste so good if you weren't hungry." Henry pointed out, wiping out his bowl with a piece of bread.

"But lord, was I hungry."

There was a short silence, before Angus asked Biggles the dreaded question. "What are we on for today?"

"I don't know, I haven't been at my desk." Biggles answered truthfully. "I suspect it won't be much. We're hardly fit for readiness." He got up from the table and ambled to his office, returning unhurriedly. "Well, at least Raymond says 'Good job!'. I wouldn't go back over that particular spot of Belgium for all the tea in China."

"What does he say about today?" Ferocity asked, his voice tinged with impatience.

Biggles continued reading in silence for a minute, before placing the letter on the table.

"Day off." he grunted, reclining in his chair.

"I could take my pass again!" Tex exclaimed, but made no move to get up.

"It's too late in the day for that," Biggles pointed out, "we'll be back on normal duties tomorrow. Besides, I think you've technically spent it."

Tex began sulking, but soon gave up. It was just too much effort.

Just after one, there was a general feeling of lazy restlessness. Each felt that they should do something, but nobody had the energy to do it, whatever it was. Bertie was the first to rise.

"I think I'll take Towser for a walk, if you fellows don't mind," he said, "I could do with stretching my legs after the morning we've spent."

"What about last night?" Taffy enquired, "Wasn't running around that field enough exercise for you?"

"Bertie's got a point," Henry chipped in, sitting up, "I've had enough resting. It's great for a while, but that wears off quickly."

"I'm going to go into the village," Ginger announced, "see if I can find a gift for my person."

The sense of this move was instantly apparent to everyone. What better time to try and find something? With a decent amount of haste, all the pilots changed out of pyjamas and wrapped up in coats and hats, for the day wasn't overly warm. Half an hour after it had been suggested, the group of nine was ambling down the narrow, winding lane to the village of Rawlham, about a mile away. Biggles had decided to stay behind, unable to justify not addressing the growing pile of paperwork on his desk. Bertie turned off onto a footpath fairly quickly, with Taffy joining him in a surprise move, and the remaining seven entered the village about ten minutes later.

The handful of village shops had their windows decorated with a rainbow of paperchains, garlands, and tinsel, and advertised various festive treats as could be produced under the circumstances. Tex, Taffy, and Henry made a beeline for a display of gingerbread centred around a little brown jug, whilst the others, after looking in their wallets, settled for window shopping. Algy slipped away, unnoticed, into the pub.

He returned a few minutes later with a fairly long object under his arm, wrapped in brown paper. Ferocity happened to turn away from a display of Christmas lights at that moment, and called to him.

"What did you get?"

"Oh, not much," Algy replied, trying to sound nonchalant, "just a little something from the pub."

"Who's it for?" Tug questioned with a grin, also noticing the package.

"Someone special." Algy winked, and began walking back to the airfield.

"I'll bet it's not me." Angus said, then they all laughed, and carried on to the next shop.

When it began to get dark, the airmen trickled back towards the airfield, looking forward to the warmth of the mess. News of Algy's mysterious purchase spread in the absence of anything else to talk about, but he refused to reveal the contents of the package, saying that they would find out in a few days. As everyone relaxed after dinner, Algy thought to where he had hidden the parcel in his room upstairs, and how happy it's recipient would be on Christmas Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones a bit short, but hope you enjoy!


	4. Leap Frog

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhnSFQVI_Oc&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=3&t=0s)

* * *

"Headquarters says we're getting new maps," Biggles announced, strolling into the mess after lunch and pinning up a notice, "the old ones are now out of date, and shouldn’t be used."

"Surely we haven't let that many bombers get through?" Taffy asked, to a general titter of laughter.

"Are we off ops 'till the new ones come?" Henry dared to ask.

"I don't think we need to be," Biggles opined, "you all know the landmarks around here don't you?"

"I reckon I could do a cross country flight blind around here." Ferocity boasted, stretching in his chair. "We've done so many sorties this morning alone, I practically did that last one in my sleep anyway."

"Are you willing to put money on that?" Bertie enquired distractedly, only half-joking.

"How much?" Ferocity asked, after a short but revealing pause.

"It's not a competition, old chap, but I'm not sure that any of us know all the landmarks there are to know." Bertie replied lightly. "I personally have kept my eyes in the air whenever we've been flying lately."

"Well, I've never been lost." Ferocity reaffirmed. "Unlike some people I could mention."

Bertie turned in his chair to face him head-on. "Oh, I say! That's not very nice!"

"Who said it was you?" Ferocity asked, feigning innocence.

"There's an easy decider for this," Biggles interrupted amiably, "why don't you two take your machines up and find out, as there’s not much going on. Bertie leads Ferocity to Wilk's place, via 238’s aerodrome, and Ferocity leads Bertie back here, via the same field. See who's quickest."

Ferocity suddenly looked decidedly uncomfortable about the turn of events, but still collected his flying kit and made his way to his Spitfire. Bertie joined him a couple of minutes later, screwing his monocle into his eye.

"Well then, off to Wilks', via that other lot on spits." he observed, starting his pre-flight checks. "Don't worry, I won't take too long."

"I'll bring you back in time for tea." Ferocity promised, with only a slight sneer in his voice.

Secretly, both pilots were slightly scared of this impromptu test, but could hardly refuse to back their own claims. Both having taken out their compasses to make it a true test of navigation by sight, they roared into the air side-by-side. Ferocity made a note of the time before falling back onto Bertie's left wing, and letting him show the way.

True to his word, Bertie took no more than fifteen minutes to get to Wilks' aerodrome, even after the detour, measuring by Ferocity's dashboard clock. Landing at 701, they were met by a handful of friendly and curious faces.

"Hullo, Bertie!" Squadron Leader 'Wilks' Wilkinson came jogging to meet the idling pair. "And Ferocity! What brings you here?"

"We've just heard that we're getting new maps," Ferocity explained, dropping to the ground, "and I was showing Bertie that I know all the landmarks around here without one."

"You haven't shown me yet, laddie," Bertie pointed out, "I got us here. You're taking us home again."

One of the airmen who had come to meet them turned his eyes from the sky and spoke to the visitors.

"You'd better get going then, it looks like there's a weather front coming in."

Bertie agreed, but left it to Ferocity to say they were leaving. "Well, tell us how it goes." Wilks said with a smile, before bidding them goodbye. Bertie noted the time as Ferocity had just after they took off, then fell back to his place on Ferocity's left wing. This was going to be the real part of the test, he thought.

Not two minutes after they had taken off, as Ferocity was climbing for the little height he needed, he suddenly noticed that the weather had arrived, and flakes of crystalline white floated past the cockpit. Going into a more powerful climb, he came out above the wintry clouds and, after checking that Bertie was still with him, looked around.

Below him stretched a blanket of white cloud, as far as the eye could see in almost every direction. The one place there was a gap was in what he thought was the direction of the coast, so he plotted his course on that and set out for Rawlham. Ten minutes later, the clouds had thinned enough for him to come down and check where he was, so he descended to just over a thousand feet and had a good look around.

The world was white. That was about all he could make out from above it: the recent snowstorm had been thick and fast. Scanning hurriedly for anything vaguely resembling a landmark, he saw to his alarm a church that he recognised- that was about seventeen miles south east of their aerodrome. This, however, gave him a course to work on, and so he zoomed off along it, a slightly bemused Bertie in tow.

When he hadn't reached Rawlham in ten minutes, he was suspicious. Fifteen and he was downright worried. Looking at his petrol gage, he saw he had good reason: there was only ten minutes left before he would have to land, at Rawlham or anywhere else. He began a search, spiralling outwards from his position, looking for anything he recognised. Seeing something which he thought he recognised, he looked a little further and saw- the hangars at Rawlham! Feverishly thanking his lucky stars, he started a long glide in, conserving petrol for the not-unlikely event of a go-around due to snow.

Lining up on what he was now sure was the farm-house, corroborated by the members of the squadron he could see standing in front of it, Ginger's hair a particular beacon, he flattened out perfectly and rolled to a stop, wheels hissing in the snow. About to slide back his cockpit cover, he was puzzled to see Bertie roaring low over him, then dropping out of sight in front of him. Scrambling to the ground, it was suddenly clear that he'd made an error, and a massive one at that.

Instead of just the Spitfire's high-cocked nose blocking his view, there was a much more solid obstruction: the thin boundary hedge between himself and the airfield, and had been made an impenetrable white mass by the recent snowfall. Forgetting himself for a moment, he threw his leather flying cap into the snow, stamping his foot. Such an elementary error!

A few minutes later, there was a rustling in the hedge and Bertie appeared, dusting snow off his shoulders and walking quickly towards him. His initial anger having passed, Ferocity braced himself for the verbal tirade that he felt he deserved after such as debacle. However, he was surprised.

"That wasn't too bad- not bad at all, considering."

"Don't flatter me. That navigation was terrible. I could've-"

"You missed jolly old Rawlham by one bally field, and that's nothing to cry about." Bertie consoled, handing Ferocity his flying helmet. "I almost missed it myself, laddie, but then I realised and pulled a leap frog over the hedge. And I don't mind admitting that that snowstorm fairly confused me, too. I was properly lost for quite a while, it's lucky you knew the landmarks to take us home."

Ferocity was dumbstruck. Just as he was about to reply, they were joined by most of the rest of the squadron. Biggles was in the lead.

"Bertie explained briefly what happened," he greeted, "well done for getting back to the airfield in one piece after that nasty turn."

"Well, not quite back to the airfield, sir." Ferocity pointed out.

"No, but that's a mistake that's soon rectified. The flight-sergeant is sending some petrol over, and you can quickly fly her over the hedge quickly." Biggles turned to the group at large. "This has proven something useful- everyone can make mistakes when working without a compass, even flight-commanders. From now until we get the new maps, I want everyone to be up with at least one other person, so it's less likely that people get lost."

Glad that nothing more had come of his errant boast, Ferocity did as he was ordered then retreated to a quiet corner of the mess. After getting the old maps from Biggles, and checking that they wouldn't be classified, he set about a task of his own that would be a present for everyone. Bertie watched him from a distance, knowing that now at least one of his problems was solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was fun to write :3


	5. Roll 'Em

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fX8bca6pIaA&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=11&t=0s)

* * *

Just as most of the officers of 666 squadron were getting up from breakfast, there was a thumping sound on the stairs. It heralded the arrival of Henry, who was still pulling on his tunic, having dressed hurriedly. Seeing that the others were just leaving, his face fell in annoyance.

"Do you think there's time for me to grab something?" he asked, making for the mostly-finished plate of toast.

"Why are you down late, Henry?" Angus asked, "Late night?"

"I was watching Annie." Henry replied, spreading jam liberally. "I think she's been ill lately."

"Well, as long it was just Annie you were up with," Angus chaffed gently, "not that girl from the Pearson's Fa-"

"Why are you late, Henry?" Biggles interrupted, coming in from his office, "We're at low readiness, but that's not an excuse."

"He was out late with a friend." Angus said with a wink, but then explained the situation between the Flying Officer and his pig, so as to keep him in trouble.

Biggles nodded in understanding and returned to his office, as the rest of the officers made their way to the mess. Henry was looking forward to a nap to make up for his lost sleep, but it was not to be. Angus called to him from the other side of the fire.

"Did you go out last night?" he asked, "I'd understand if you did. That girl at Pearson's Farm is quite the sight."

Henry blushed a deep red, trying to ignore the knowing smiles that were being exchanged. "Annie is ill. I wanted to make sure she was alright."

"So that's why you went to the farm last Saturday! I didn't know her name was Annie."

"Her name is not Annie! It's Margaret, and- and I was there to get some medicine for Annie, my pig."

"You shouldn't call your girl that." Angus said, disapprovingly. "Pig is not a nice term."

"She's not-!" Henry's face was almost the same colour as Ginger's hair as he tried to explain. "Annie, my pig, is ill. I went to Pearson's Farm to see Margaret, the girl who works there, to get medicine for Annie."

"Two girls!" Angus teased. "Really, Henry, I thought I knew you better."

Standing up quickly, Henry's chair hit the floor with a bang. "It's nothing like that!"

"Do you like Margaret?" Angus asked pointedly.

"I- well- she's a nice girl!" Henry said, trying in vain to defend himself. "She likes Annie too-"

"Oh, so that's how it is!" Angus said, with a broad smile. "Mind you don't get a catfight on your hands, Henry, two girls fighting isn't a pretty sight."

If looks could kill, Angus would have been dead where he sat. "Stop it." Henry said, barely controlling his anger.

"Or what, you'll set your girls on him?" enquired Taffy, who had been listening to the conversation as it progressed.

This was a step too far for Henry, who suddenly turned to where his friend was standing near the fireplace and, completely unexpectedly, pushed him backwards with all the force he could muster. As Taffy collapsed on top of Ginger, Henry fled from the mess, the outside door banging behind him. Biggles appeared just in time to see Angus following Henry at a run, and as the CO asked Taffy what had happened, Angus stood on the forecourt, looking around for where Henry had disappeared to. He was annoyed, not to mention surprised, at the sudden outburst of violence from his junior officer, but felt mostly responsible. Ribbing him like that had gone too far and been unkind, and apparently Taffy joining in had pushed Henry over the limit. Having a sudden flash of inspiration, Angus headed left in the direction of some nearby forest, where he quickly came to the sty where Henry kept his pig, Annie. Apart from the hog, sitting in a patch of mud, there was a figure in blue leaning against the dry stone wall that made the enclosure.

"Henry?" Angus asked, joining his friend. "I'm sorry for teasing you like that, but there was no need to push Taffy."

"I'm sorry about that." Henry muttered, not looking around. "It's just- I'm tired, and worried about Annie, and I- I do actually like Margaret, a lot." Henry turned to look at his flight commander. "I've been waiting for the right moment to ask her out, but if everyone's going to tease me, then I won't."

"I won't make fun of you and Margaret again, I promise." Angus said, sincerely. "I won't do and, and I'll make sure the others don't either. I think you two go well together."

"Really?"

"Sure! Nice girl like her, nice chap like you, and your common interest in Annie."

Henry smiled, and even laughed a little, much happier than he had been. "I will apologize to Taffy," he promised, "I didn't mean to lash out like that."

"Well, as least you didn't punch him or anything."

"I would never!"

"You almost decked him with that push alone." Angus pointed out. "You must have been angry. When he landed on that chair with Ginger, I thought you would roll 'em both onto the floor."

"I try not to take teasing lying down."

"Except from your flight commander, apparently."

"I'd be in an even worse situation if I'd pushed you."

"No, I understand that I was annoying you deliberately." There was a short pause. "Let's go back to the farmhouse. You can apologize to Taffy."

After quickly checking on Annie, who was doing a little better, the two pilots headed back to the mess, the situation sorted. Angus, however, had an idea of how to make it up to Henry properly, and set about looking up the details whilst Henry made his apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not so happy with this one, but oh well...


	6. Pennsylvania 6-5000

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_muFwwTSMs&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=11)

* * *

Although he'd first had the idea of everyone getting gifts for each other, Ginger was having a surprising amount of trouble to think of something to get his giftee. Angus wasn't someone who he talked to as often as others, but they were still friends, and whilst this should have meant that he knew what the flight commander would want to receive, Ginger was suddenly clueless. However, whilst mentally going through some of the squadron's past adventures, he realised one thing that Angus might be lacking: a bottle of good whiskey.

This idea immediately ran into problems. How was he going to get hold of a decent bottle of anything in the middle of a war? It would cost a small fortune, even if he did find someone to buy it off. However, with six days to go and no other plan, he could but try. Now, who did he know who might be able to get something like that for him? Nobody. He'd have to ask around.

That evening, 666 squadron was to be found assembled in a cheery but cramped pub, crowded around the slightly off-key piano whilst Bertie went at it for all he was worth with a rendition of a popular (though unrepeatable) song. As this wasn't within their usual locality, Ginger having pleaded use of a truck off Biggles, a number of airmen from other squadrons were also in the bar, a handful of Americans among them. As the two groups mingled, both among themselves and with a group of female typists from a nearby War Ministry installation, Ginger floated around with a drink in hand, listening to snatches of different conversations over the rowdy key-banging, and rarely tuneful singing that accompanied it.

"…and then John said, 'I know what you think, but…'"

"…there I was, his tail in my sights…"

"…and zoom! He cut straight across me..."

"…I can get some of that on the cheap, if you like…"

Pausing behind the speaker of the last line, Ginger listened to the conversation with little more than casual interest, looking the other way. As near as his fleeting glimpse could guess, the speaker had been a local farmer, talking to a youngish American air force officer.

"How much will it cost?" Ginger heard the American ask, a little suspiciously.

"Less than half of what you'd normally pay." The farmer replied, his voice tinged with cunning.

"And it's the real stuff? Not just powder made up?"

"If I say I've got the real stuff, you can rely on me, soldier." the farmer said, sounding a little big for his wellington boots.

Turning to the pair, Ginger joined the conversation.

"What are you selling?" he asked, with interest.

The farmer looked mildly panicked for a second, but then relaxed. The American answered. "I'm getting some orange juice." he said bluntly, turning back to the farmer. "Where should I pick it up from?" he asked.

"The land rover round the back, like usual." the farmer said. "You can pay me then, too." With a final thank you, the airman turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Ginger looked at the farmer. "Do you sell anything else?"

"What are you looking for? I've probably got some, or could get hold of some."

"So, you're a big noise in the, uh…then?"

"You could say that," the farmer said, looking around a little nervously, "what is it you're looking for?"

"A good bottle of whiskey."

The farmer whistled quietly, smiling a pitiful smile. "That's going to cost you a pretty penny."

"I'm prepared to pay; it's a present."

"Sweetening up the CO?"

"…something like that." Ginger replied, not eager to elaborate. "When could I get it by?"

There was a second of silence between them whilst the farmer thought, eyes flicking around the bar, then he replied with the last thing Ginger expected.

"I can tell you now where you can get your hands on some- tonight."

"Pull the other one," Ginger complained, "that stuff can't be easy to come by."

"I know someone who knows someone who will probably have some!" the farmer explained. "If you feel like a short walk, I can give you the password to talk to the first man in the chain."

Ginger glanced at the clock. There was only an hour until the squadron had to leave, if they wanted to be back at Rawlham by Biggles' curfew, but if he kept an eye on his watch, he should be able to manage it. "Alright, what's the password?" he asked.

"Pennsylvania 6-5000," the farmer said promptly, "you've got to whistle it under the back window of number three Hallstone Road, in the next village over."

"Retisham?"

"That's the one." the farmer confirmed. "Tell them that Pulham sent you, and ask for what you want."

After checking his watch one more time, Ginger stepped out into the night, pulling his greatcoat around him. After a brisk walk to Retisham along deserted country lanes, with only the dimmed beam of his pocket torch to guide him, he made his way to Hallstone road. Even though there was no danger of being seen through thick blackout curtains, Ginger still felt very aware that he was doing something illegal, and turned his torch off, blundering as quietly as he could to the back of number three, trying to remember exactly how the password song went. Two seconds into his rather shaky rendition of the popular tune, he heard the window above him open, and looking up, saw a shadowy figure half leaning out.

"What is it?" asked a gravelly voice.

"Pulham sent me," Ginger half-whispered, "I'm looking for a bottle of good whiskey."

There was a moment of silence, and Ginger was beginning to think that the person had gone inside, when something bounced off his shoulder with a dull thump, ending its journey at his feet. "That's all I know." the voice said, then there was the sound of the window closing. After finding the offending pebble, and the note attached to it, Ginger walked a short way before turning his torch it, then read 'barn across fields from back of house, look in hayloft'.

Dutifully, Ginger set off across the wintry snow-covered stubble of the wheat fields, conscious that his torch could probably be seen from quite some distance away. The walk was hot work; between the snow and clay-based mud, his shoes were quickly caked, and every step was an effort. Finally, he reached the barn, and after satisfying himself that nobody was there, climbed into the hayloft, not without difficulty.

Having no idea what he was looking for, Ginger set about going through each pile of hay looking for anything of interest, and was soon strewn with bits of straw. He was holding the torch in his teeth, thigh deep in a particularly feathery haystack, when he was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, and turned to find himself face to face with a rather angry ARP warden.

"Put that light out!" Ginger did as he was told, then continued to stand, frozen, in the dark. "What are you doing up here, anyway?" the warden continued.

"I'm looking…for something." If he told the truth, the only way Ginger could see this ending was with him in police custody.

"Have you found it yet? The farmer who called in seeing a light flashing around in his barn said it had been going on for fifteen minutes."

"Is that the time!" Ginger said, seeing a way out. "Well, I'd better be going…"

"What were you looking for?" the warden pressed, "Anything…special?"

Ginger thought his game was up. Bracing himself for the worst, he told the truth. "I'm not sure what I expected to find. I got told to look around in this hayloft if I wanted a bottle of good whiskey."

Unexpectedly, the warden suddenly laughed, a short, barking sound, and Ginger felt his ears reddening in the darkness, both with relief and embarrassment. When the noise abated, the ARP came out with the last thing Ginger expected.

"You've come to the wrong barn, laddie!"

"What?! You know about this racket?"

"Know about it- I organize most of it round here."

The thin beam of the warden's torch came on, and as they descended to ground level, the situation was explained.

Ginger had come to the wrong barn, his course having veered slightly in the dark. Had he got to the right barn, he would have met a small party of air observers in a dugout just below the south wall, who would have given him instructions to go to the next place. As it was, the warden said he could save Ginger the trouble of walking all the way over there, and gave him directions to the next place in the chain from the barn they were in. Thankful that he’d had the good luck to meet the ARP warden, Ginger set off again, this time on hard roads rather than stubble fields.

It was quarter to ten when he turned into a farmyard, and after creeping through the silent buildings, Ginger arrived at the back of a rather lopsided looking building, which, with the amount of noise coming from it, couldn't be anything except a pub. Parked silently at the back was a muddy land rover, with a dark figure sitting in the driver's seat. Before he'd said anything, the figure called out to him, in a vaguely familiar voice.

"Are you the sap who's looking for a bottle of whiskey?"

"Yes." Ginger replied, moving closer. "I take it you've got some you can sell me."

Without a word the figure got out and reached into the back of the land rover, placing a small-ish wooden crate on the ground, as well as a miniature crowbar. The crate was opened, and there was the sound of a bottle being pulled out.

“This good enough?” the dark figure asked.

Ginger pulled out his torch and quickly observed the label.

“Yes, that’s fine.” He began to dig for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Before the shady figure could reply, a door at the back of the pub was thrown open, throwing a triangle of orange light just behind Ginger. What happened next was so quick that Ginger simply watched them happen around him. The whiskey seller stuffed the bottle back into the crate just as a shadow appeared in the doorway, and a cry of ‘Where’s my whiskey!’ was lost in the engine of the land rover as it sped away. Peering, Ginger saw the shadow resolve into the figure of a barman- the barman from the pub he had driven the squadron to. He’d gone around in a circle!

“You there! There’s a crate of whiskey missing! Is that it?”

It was lucky that Ginger could think as fast as he could, or he probably would have been in deep trouble. However, as it was, an explanation sprang to his lips.

“I just found it here, open. I was going to bring it back when you opened the door.”

The barman relaxed, coming forwards and picking up the case. “Good lad, and they’re all here too, luckily.” The man looked at Ginger shrewdly. “You want one? Just as a finder’s thing, I could give you a bit off.” Ginger accepted the offer hastily, and passed over a few notes, receiving the bottle with a smile.

Tucking his precious charge into an inside pocket, Ginger went back into the pub and collected his squadron mates from a rather heated discussion with some of the Americans over the merits of both country’s aircraft. As he pulled out towards Rawlham, he smiled- finally, he’d got his present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was inspired by the fic "They Don't Booze, and They Don't Brood" by Tiffinata, available on the Biggles Forum (https://bigglesforum.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=56&t=86)


	7. American Patrol

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUgh6ivoQYc&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=13)

* * *

Unknown to either of them, Tex was having similar difficulties to Ginger when thinking of a present for his giftee. His task had been made significantly harder because of who he was shopping for: none other than the CO himself, Biggles.

In the gaps between their sorties, when everyone lounged around the fire in the mess, Tex thought hard, and wondered what would be appreciated. He couldn't go wrong with cigarettes, but they weren't really a present unless you got a lot of them, and on his fairly limited budget that seemed unlikely. He briefly considered cash, but thought it quite impersonal. The whole point of the gift exchange was for it to be something meaningful, as the presents and cards from their families and friends was highly unlikely to arrive on time, if at all. His gift would have to be something special.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden cry of the telephone, and everyone's heads snapped around to look at Bertie, who had picked it up as he was closest. After listening for a second, he was slamming it down, yelling the word that bought everyone to their feet instantly- scramble! As books and magazines slid away, so did all Tex's ideas for gift hunting, to be replaced by thoughts of the combat to come. Racing to his Spitfire, he was soon rumbling over the grass and roaring into the air, following the directions he was hearing over the R/T.

The combat that followed was fast and fierce. The Spitfires were outnumbered three to one by Messerschmitt 109s, and try and they might, it looked to be a losing battle. The Spitfire pilots were well trained, and though the Messerschmitt tactics were not quite as refined, they had sheer numbers on their side. However, as the fight progressed, a squadron of Hurricanes bore down on them, helping to balance the battle. Diving away from his second kill, Tex took a quick moment out of the fray to check what had gone on.

Other than himself, there were still eight Spitfires in the sky. One was gliding away some distance to the west, a steady stream of smoke coming from its engine. On the ground below there were nine or ten crash sites, most of them looking like 109s. As he watched, a hurricane fell in flames.

Suddenly, almost before he was aware of why, he banked steeply to the left, half-rolling, before diving a short way and looking behind him. His minute's lapse in concentration had made him seem like dead meat for a red-nosed Hun, who now came screaming down on his tail, tracer closing the gap between them. Fighting for his life, Tex pulled every move he knew, but couldn't seem to shake off his unwanted companion.

He tried to take his combat a bit closer to the main vortex to attract some help, but it seemed that everyone else was busy fighting off the last of the Messerschmitts. Finally, their combat bought the two fighters head on, each fully prepared to ram the other, as was due for the honour of a fighter pilot to be intact.

Suddenly, another Spitfire soared between the two machines with a kind of mesmerizing grace, diving downwards. In a moment of pure foolishness, the 109 pilot dived after it. Tex, knowing an easy kill when he saw one, dived after it.

The Messerschmitt pilot couldn't have ever known that Tex had come down behind him until it was far, far too late. He took no defensive action, but busily poured tracer into the intervening Spitfire, until it’s nose suddenly jerked upwards, and Tex knew that his short, calculated burst had hit the pilot. The red spinner, airscrew still threshing, ploughed straight down for five thousand feet before hitting the ground, and bursting into flames. Tex returned his eyes to the sky.

The first thing he saw horrified him, for it was the Spitfire that had saved him, also going down in flames. Orange tongues licked backwards from the engine, and the cockpit cover wasn’t open. The thing that made him go truly cold, though, were the letters on the fuselage. It was Biggles.

Everything seemed to stop as he watched the doomed machine’s progress. At four thousand feet, the cockpit finally opened and a figure appeared on the wing- but it fell for the best part of two thousand feet without a parachute, before it finally blossomed, and the pilot floated gently to the ground. The flaming Spitfire crashed a few fields to the east, smack in the middle of an American aerodrome.

Confident that Biggles would receive all the help he needed, Tex turned back to the fight, but the sky was empty as far as the eye could see. Mind still numb, he put his nose down for Rawlham, and made a slightly rough landing. Algy met him as he dropped to the ground.

“Tex, thank god you’re back.” Was the greeting. “Have you seen Biggles anywhere?”

“He got- he was shot down.”

Algy stared at him in disbelief. “Shot down?” he echoed, “Biggles? Is he- did he bail out?”

“Yes, but quite low. He landed near an American airbase, I’m sure they’ll pick him up.”

The information was quickly relayed to the rest of the squadron, and Toddy bustled off to make all the necessary phone calls. The mess was in silence until he came back, announcing that Biggles had stayed to lunch, and would come back in a tender that afternoon. There was a collective sigh of relief.

When the CO finally reappeared at around 13:00, it was with his arm in a sling, and a look of annoyance on his face. He was greeted warmly by the others.

“What happened to your arm?” Algy asked, concerned.

“I caught the edge of a bullet.” Biggles replied, a trifle shortly, and explained exactly what had happened when he had bailed out. “I allowed that Messer to get on my tail, because I thought I could deal with him, but he was quicker than I thought. One of his bullets grazed my arm, and it confused me a bit, but another one got my engine, so I had to bail out.”

“Why did you leave it so long, old boy?” Bertie questioned. “Tex said you were only down to about two thousand feet when the ‘chute opened.”

“You try opening the cockpit cover with a duff arm when you’re being pushed into your seat, and tell me how it feels.” Biggles snapped, turning away.

Surprised by the outburst, the pilots went back to their seats, but Algy followed his cousin to his office. “Are you alright?” he asked, closing the door behind him, “It’s just the bullet that’s bothering you?”

“Yes, but not the one that did this.” Biggles tapped his arm. “The one that was in my engine is what’s annoying me. I liked that spit, a lot- I’d had it so long that it did exactly what I wanted it to do, exactly when I wanted it.”

“That’s what all of them feel like to me,” Algy said, “they’re good aircraft.”

“This one was…well, it just felt like a part of me. I suppose that’s a bit thick.”

Algy shrugged his shoulders. “Each to his own. If that’s all, I’d rather like a cup of tea.”

With instructions to bring one for Biggles as well, Algy hurried off to the mess, meeting Tex in the corridor. After being asked if the CO was alright, Algy told him the conversation that had just happened.

So, Biggles was missing his Spitfire, Tex thought, as a truck rumbled over the track towards the village that evening. The squadron hadn't been allowed too far, but a quick drink in the pub was sanctioned, and Tex wouldn’t be left out. Biggles, his arm and temper sore, had remained at the farmhouse.

Inside the pub, it was much noisier than usual, which seemed to be mostly because of a rowdy American patrol standing around the bar. Tex sidled over and got chatting, and a short time later the conversation turned to the day in combat.

"I didn't go up at all," said Lieutenant Sanders, a mustang pilot, "but I saw a fair bit of action from the ground."

"Oh yeah?" Tex asked, interested, "Between who?"

"Some Spitfires and Messerschmitts. The Spitfires were quite outnumbered, but some more came later and helped out."

"I think that must have been my lot," Tex said, with a smile, "we were having a pretty hot time before those Hurricanes turned up."

"They got a Spitfire near the end that crashed on our aerodrome," Sanders went on, "I was in the party that picked up the pilot. You know him?"

"My CO."

"Nice chap, you're lucky. Stayed to lunch, and told some great stories."

Tex suddenly remembered something. "Say, what happened to the Spitfire that crashed?"

"It was a complete write off, so it was cleared away for scrap. Some people picked it over for souvenirs." Sanders dug in his tunic for a minute, before pulling out a small silver petrol lighter. "I made this out of a slice of the wing- it's the kind of thing I do to pass the time."

Allowed to examine it, Tex saw good workmanship readily in evidence. The metal had been polished of fire damage and its camouflage paint, and a light artistic impression of a Spitfire was on one side. The other held the details of the machine- the base it had been shot down over, and the date. Tex complemented the maker.

"This is amazing!"

"Thanks, I spent the afternoon on it."

"How much would it cost me?" Tex asked, an idea forming in his mind.

"My bar tab for tonight- I've only had a couple of beers."

"You're sure?"

"Why not? There's plenty of the Spitfire left. I can always make another one- I've always got more time."

"Thanks!"

Tex pocketed the lighter, then paid up readily. After all his worry, his gift was finally sorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to the like one person whos reading this, your a real one


	8. Wrappin' It Up

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnLWdOxAvDo&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=6)

* * *

"I've got one!" It was Ginger who spoke, appearing in the door of the mess dragging a small fir tree, with rivers running off both his coat and his charge.

He'd taken the time to chop it down himself from a patch on the airfield perimeter, and was hoping that the land owner wouldn't notice his…handiwork. Not that anyone was likely to be out walking in the storm that was currently battering the airfield, let alone stopping to inspect tree stumps.

"Put it next to the fire," suggested Algy, who was the impromptu director of the decoration session, "and for God's sake close that door."

"Next to the fire, old top?" Bertie queried, looking up from his cutting out of paper snowflakes, "But won't that be a bit too close to the jolly old flames, if you see what I mean?"

"Try it in that corner, instead of the table." Tex suggested, from his position balancing on Tug's shoulders, pinning streamers to the ceiling beams.

Ginger closed the door and waited on the doormat, a small lake gathering at his feet, as Henry went to shift the offending counter. He looked around a minute later.

"Would you like to help me move it?" Henry enquired, after trying and failing to shift the weight, "this isn't made of plywood, you know."

"Let's put it next to the table instead," Algy decided, "then we can cover up that patch in the wallpaper."

Ginger placed the tree with no small difficulty, then stood back to look at his specimen. He wasn't actually overly sure that it was a Christmas tree type of tree, but after a few minutes of decorating it seemed to hold tinsel and baubles well enough, so nobody was complaining. In fact, the mess was a scene of activity for once, as everyone was occupied in various Christmas decoration tasks. Having been given a day at low readiness by high winds and squalls of particularly aggressive rain, it had been decided that then was the time to decorate the mess. A Christmas tree obviously needed, Ginger had drawn the short straw for going to find one.

Whilst he had been out, the rest of the squadron had not been idle. Boxes of tinsel and coloured paper had appeared from the attic, and whilst the tinsel had simply been draped over and pinned to anything that didn't move fast enough, which included a now-smouldering Angus, the paper had been subject to a rather more creative approach. Three-dimensional garlands and paper stars hung around the walls, and long streamers such as Tex was pinning up, swagged between the ceiling beams.

The centrepiece of the affair was a thin, colourful garland that ran the whole length of the mess, and round the corner at the back. It was composed of strips of a rainbow of official forms that had been victim to typing errors, interspersed with rings of the equally colourful ex-maps, and was the product of several hours hard work on the part of Ferocity.

Also present were several handfuls of holly, ivy, and miscellaneous tree branches, which would probably be the first things to go when Biggles returned to the station later in the day. His going to a meeting in London may or may not have been a deciding factor in decorating the mess at that time. The amount of balloons that had popped already would have caused him to end the proceedings, but as it was the officers went merrily on, trying their best to tidy up the trail of destruction that they left behind them.

Taffy alone was not engaged in the main proceedings. Sitting at the end of the dining table, he was furiously trying to fold something small in what felt like an even smaller piece of paper. He needed more, but this had been all he was able to scrounge. Seeing his friend struggling, Ferocity ambled over to offer his services.

"What are you doing?" he asked, peering at his Taffy's futile efforts.

"I'm…I'm…ugh." Taffy pushed the thing away from him in annoyance. "Look for yourself."

Ferocity picked up a small item made of glass, with a hint of gold around the edge, and a long, thin chain attached at an awkward angle. "What are you doing with the thing?" he enquired, replacing it carefully in the crumpled piece of paper.

"What does it look like I'm doing, dancing with it?" Taffy snarled, "I'm wrappin' it up."

"Funny way to go about it." Ferocity commented, then sidestepped the ball of paper that was aimed at his head.

"Now you get me a new bit, as you made me so angry," Taffy sulked, "and make it a bit bigger than that one!" he called as an afterthought, as Ferocity ambled away.

Thinking of his gift had been easy, but by thunder was it hard to wrap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one today, but the pic at the end was my inspiration for the chapter! (credit: google images)


	9. Sun Valley Jump

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJQl3ftLqrA&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=10&t=0s)

* * *

Whilst the weak winter sun was drying out the airfield the next morning, the pilots of 666 squadron sat around in their flying kit in the mess, admiring the previous day's efforts. Although a couple of garlands had come unstuck overnight, a handful of quick pins before breakfast had put everything back in place for when Biggles arrived- just after the toast had been finished. He wasn't impressed.

"Oh, come on chaps, you could have saved me something," he said, "you know how early I have to set off from London."

"You were so late we thought you'd eaten there, old bean. Sorry."

"Old beans is all I'm getting now," Biggles continued, but with a small smile, "at least there's something left, I suppose."

The end of the meal was conducted in silence, then all retired to the mess to begin the day. Some of that morning's newspapers were thrown around briefly before people settled into chairs, occasionally glancing out the window to watch the progress of the evaporation of a large lake outside the hangars. After exhausting his copy of the Daily Express, Taffy remarked to the room at large, "Nothing interesting seems to happen these days. It's all doom and gloom."

"There’s a war on." an anonymous voice reminded, to a titter of laughter.

"Even so, we could do with something…else. I'm sick of hearing about the latest thing to do with potatoes."

"Why don't you tell one of your Doctor Duck stories, Ginger?" suggested Algy, who was attempting to read a novel, "it might quiet things down for a while."

Ginger threw down his magazine and scratched his head. "Which ones haven't you heard?"

"Try us." Angus said, drawing his chair closer.

"How about…the one with the mammoths?”

“You’ve already told us about those particular customers.” Bertie reminded.

“There was one with a valley where the sun never set, but I think-"

"No, we haven't heard that one." Henry confirmed. "Go ahead, Ginger."

After settling himself a little more comfortably in his chair, and mentally reviewing the facts, this is the story he told:

Well, it began like most of our other adventures with Donald. We were sitting around having breakfast in Mount Street, when guess who comes bursting in, armed with newspaper clippings and notes. When he had calmed down, the Doctor told us a tale- of a valley in America where the sun never set. Some places with this phenomenon occur in the summer, but they are generally only very far north, near the arctic circle. This place was in the Chihuahuan Desert, which is half in Mexico, and half in the states- much too far south to get this.

Reports from visitors to the area, of which there were few, because of how difficult it was to get there and how little there was to do there, stated that there was a line in a small gulley above the village of Sun Valley which constantly gave out an incredibly bright light, almost as hard to look at as the sun. When the actual sun when down, there was negligible change in the light level for miles around this strip, meaning that people could work easily through the night. However, no great technological miracles had been achieved, as the people there were simple farmers. What Doctor Duck wanted to do was find out what was causing the light, and get a sample of it, as it seemed to have enough power to light up entire cities, even with a small bit of whatever it was.

There was one detail which worried Biggles- the light sometimes dimmed temporarily when the ground rumbled, which seemed to indicate in a roundabout way that the region suffered from earthquakes. If the machine was damaged so far from civilisation, we could be stuck there as potato farmers- the local delicacy. This not appealing to any of us, we would have to be careful.

Three weeks later, we were approaching the place from the air, the Wanderer stuffed to the brim with Donald's ever-present equipment. Even though it was daytime, we could already see a bright light ahead, and knew that it must be our goal. For this reason, we didn't ever pinpoint it on the map. As we got closer, we could see that the strip of light was to the south of a small collection of rough houses, but all were encompassed in a valley, with steep sides. The only landing place within ten miles seemed to be just next to the strip of light, and so Algy was ordered to hand round smoked glasses, to prevent eye damage.

These helped, but not massively. The light really was like that when you look into the sun, but it was all around us, and getting stronger as we got closer. The funny thing I found was that there was no heat- the air temperature was just as it is in that part of the world. The light was just that- light, nothing else. Apparently, it didn't even cause tanning.

Biggles managed to put the machine down nicely, but the ground was not conductive to peace of mind. Even after he had switched off, we moved a couple of feet on our momentum, as small pebbles and other detritus littered the floor, worn smooth by the winds of ages. When we got out, we piled as much as we could around the wheels, to try and prevent it from moving whilst we went off to inspect the strip of light.

To be that close meant that we had to wear strange goggles that Donald bought- instead of glass, they had lenses of thin metal. I was surprised that we could still see a little through them, and definitely each other's shadows, though no details. I didn't spend too much time around it, as the light was just too bright for me, but Donald managed to ascertain that the thing was a ravine, a chasm if you will, and the walls were made of brittle crystal. It easily turned into powder when rubbed, and for this reason the walls were smooth as silk.

Leaving Algy to watch the aircraft- well, more sit in it to add some weight- Biggles, Donald, and I walked down into the valley, to get some statements from the locals. Donald could have done this alone, but Biggles and I wanted to rest our eyes from the bright light around the ravine, so we joined him.

The people spoke some kind of Spanish dialect peppered with English words, so conversation was stilted. However, Doctor Duck found that people took the light for granted, and whilst they didn't worship it, they were slightly afraid. Nobody knew when the light had started, and it had never completely gone out, only got steadily dimmer over the course of a hundred or so years. Nothing more was said about it- the people had never done any measurements or experiments. They didn't really care.

After a quick drink, we started walking back to the ravine, putting our smoked glasses on about half way between it and the village. The aircraft was on the right-hand side, in the direction we were going- the gorge was in the middle, and there was another, similar strip of land on the left. Donald led us to the left, deciding to walk the perimeter of the thing before trying to get a decent sample, the pushing off back to civilisation to do tests. This suited us, so we tagged along.

We'd been walking for half an hour when there was a small tremor, sending a few stones bouncing into the gorge. Fearing that more might come, and make it unsafe, the Doctor got us to hold one of his ankles each whilst he leant over into the ravine and tried to chip off a sample. His glasses dangling off his nose, he was at it for a short while before there was another tremor, bigger this time, and he almost fell in. We hoisted him back, and got him to his feet, all the time with the earth rumbling below us. At this point, I might add, we were almost opposite where the Wanderer was parked, and could see it quite clearly. We were standing wondering what to do, when I suddenly noticed something- the ravine was getting less bright. This may have been because of all the stones falling into it, a constant small stream, but it also seemed to be- well, the ground was closing up before my eyes. Just as I thought this, the quaking became more violent, and it was obvious that it was time to leave.

Biggles' first thought was for the machine, and looking up, we saw it sliding slowly towards the closing ravine. There was no time to walk around the end and go up again- we would have to leap for it. I remember this as the Sun Valley Jump- taking a run up, the ground writing under our feet, Biggles went first, aiming for the other side and hoping for the best. Through the light, it looked like he was simply swallowed up by yellowness. The experience of the actual jump was most disconcerting- nothing but yellow around me. However, I landed on the other side, and was caught by Biggles as I toppled. As soon as the Doctor was across, we ran like hell for the machine, which was almost at the brink of the chasm.

Whilst Doctor Duck was lamenting the loss of his top hat, apparently gone in the jump, Biggles was worried about Algy. Surely he hadn't gone into the village for something? If he was there, why hadn't the machine taken off yet- he couldn't be such a fool as to wait for us. Ripping open the cabin door, Biggles found the reason- it seemed that Algy had been knocked over by one of the first tremors, and hit his head. Whilst Donald and I lightened the cabin by chucking out all the heaviest equipment, Biggles started up, and as soon as we were inside, took off. It was rather touch and go, but we just about managed it- one of our wheels dipped into the ravine just before we took to the air, but no damage was done.

Looking back, I didn't need my smoked glasses to look at the ravine- it was just a slither of light, nowhere near as wide as it had been before. Algy regained consciousness a couple of minutes afterwards, and apologized bashfully for not getting us off earlier. We didn't blame him- had he left, we probably would have slid into the ravine along with the pebbles, and I wouldn't be telling you this today.

Donald wanted to go back and try to get a sample again once the earthquake died down, and we did indeed fly back- however, the ravine was completely closed up, and it's exact site covered by thousands of pieces of loose material. People still looked up when we passed over the village, so they hadn't gone away, but the light had shut off forever, and they would now have to deal with darkness. I wondered if they would be scared of the loss of light; for all we knew, they might not have any artificial light sources in place. However, we would have to leave them to it. Donald discovered an interesting article in his morning paper the next day, and decided to fly off to the Bahamas. But that's another story.

"So, that's my tale for the day," Ginger remarked, sitting up and stretching, "anyone want to play cards?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta daaa


	10. Sing, Sing, Sing

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2S1I_ien6A&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=19)

* * *

With two days to go until Christmas day, Henry was beginning to panic. He really had no idea what to get his person, and it was so close to the deadline that he was seriously considering just asking him what he wanted, and seeing if he could get his hands on it quick enough. Although he spoke to the person regularly, it had only really been about their day-to-day jobs- personal lives hadn't come into any conversations. Henry's giftee drank, but not often, and then mostly beer, didn't smoke regularly enough for it to be relevant, and didn't seem to be pining for any Christmas traditions from home…what were the Christmas traditions where he was from?

He asked a couple of the others what was traditional at this time of year in his giftee's part of the world, but drew a blank. In desperation, he approached Algy, hoping he might be able to shed some light.

"Christmas traditions?" Algy echoed, when the question was posed, "Yes there are a few that I've heard of. Some of them are only done in certain regions, though."

"Like what?"

"There's a carol service early in the morning on Christmas Day, which lasts for about three hours- I've been a couple of times, it's alright."

"Anything else?" Henry asked, not sure how he would put that one on.

"There are some traditional songs that-"

"Anything that doesn't involve music?" prompted Henry, "something I could make?"

“You’re telling me that you can’t sing, sing, sing?” Algy asked with a wink, over dramatic tone with a slight edge of teasing.

“No.” Henry groused.

"Well, there is one thing I can think of, but it might be a bit difficult to get hold of."

"What is it?"

"Well, I expect he knows about it, as he appears to be named after it- but that's only a nickname, of course."

Algy explained the Christmas Eve custom, whilst Henry listened with a whirring mind. Where he would get hold of any, he didn't know, so he would have to make some- or have some made for him. He wouldn't try making the recipe himself, but he knew someone who would be able to- if he could get enough of the ingredients. Sugar wasn't easy to get at the best of times, but right before Christmas it would be even harder.

It took him the rest of the day to scrape together enough ingredients to make the project worthwhile, including largeish quantities of sugar and butter, and a little salt. The kitchen on the airfield had said a polite but firm 'no' to his culinary experiments, so he sloped off instead for the farm where Margaret lived. He had yet to ask her out, but if she agreed, now might be the perfect opportunity. Consoled by that thought, he gathered up his packages and set off down the lane, just as everyone else was headed to the village pub.

Luckily, Margaret was only too happy to invite him in, and give him use of her kitchen. She had made the recipe before, and offered her expertise, much to Henry’s satisfaction. As they waited for the finished product to cool, a process that was likely to take hours, they got down to talking, and Henry steered the conversation towards his question.

It was with a light heart that Henry left the farmhouse later that evening, a box of confectionery under his arm, and a date in his diary. Margaret had agreed to go with him to a Christmas Eve social the following evening, and now Henry was beaming brighter than the north star. He wouldn’t have been surprised to be stopped by an ARP warden. Letting himself quietly into the farmhouse, he tiptoed to his room and stashed the gift, hoping that it’s recipient wouldn’t find it before the big day, and was soon asleep, dreaming of the next evening, and his beautiful date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may or may not have forgotten to post this...sorry its so bad :/


	11. Tudexo Junction

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FShSI_6LyF8&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=17&t=0s)

* * *

"Listen up, chaps," pronounced Biggles, striding into the 666 squadron mess, "we're going out tonight, courtesy of the Air Ministry."

The assembled officers looked around as one, surprise written on all of their faces.

"But I thought we were going to the Christmas Eve party in the village, look you?" Taffy asked, slightly disappointed.

"I've said I'd take Margaret," Henry said worriedly, "and I can't let her down."

"Bring her along, you've all been given a plus one." Biggles said. "For some reason, the Air Ministry is pushing the boat out."

Algy's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "They're not sweetening us up for a job, are they?"

"I don't think so." Biggles said, taking a seat near the fire. "The invite is addressed to all the pilots, under the heading of myself, but Raymond attached a note saying that he's going as well, and his wife."

"What's the idea?" Ginger asked.

"The covering letter says that the Air Ministry is holding a party for all its…'distinguished officers', in London tonight. We're to wear our number ones, and everyone has an optional plus one." Biggles recited from memory. "The event begins at eight, and, barring an air raid, should end around half past ten. That'll give us plenty of time to get back before midnight, if anyone was hoping for a visit from Santa Claus."

A ripple of laughter ran around the company, and Bertie put his hand up to ask a question.

"When are we leaving, old warrior?"

"At seven, after an early dinner at quarter past six." Biggles said. "That leaves just over an hour to get ready." When nobody moved, he clapped his hands. "Well, let's go!"

There was a sudden burst of action. Everyone got to their feet, wondering exactly where their best trousers were, and if they had a stainless tie. Once upstairs, the air was thick with swishing fabric and flying socks and ties. Biggles dressed quickly, knowing exactly where all his things were from more frequent use, and was then confronted by a mildly frantic Ginger.

"Which one?"

"What?" Biggles blinked, "Which which?"

"Which hat should we be wearing?" Ginger clarified, holding a forage cap in one hand and a peaked hat in the other.

"Oh…the peaked one." said Biggles, straightening Ginger's tie. "What's the time?" he added

"Time for dinner."

Downstairs, the meal was conducted with an unusual amount of care, as nobody could afford a last-minute shirt change. There were a few spare minutes to pick up arranged dates, including Margaret and a couple of other girls from the village, and this done, everyone piled into a small fleet of cars, and headed off to London.

They arrived a little late, but it seemed to go unnoticed. From the people entering the building, Biggles judged that 'distinguished officers' meant not only military personnel, but a number of civilians. After reminding them that the tenders would be waiting there at half past ten, the officers were released into the main function room, and quickly dissipated.

"Gosh, it's like tuxedo junction in here." Biggles remarked, looking around the sea of black, white, and blue. "I didn't know Raymond knew this many people."

"It's not just his party, don't forget," Algy reminded, "this is a whole Air Ministry do."

"And why we're on the guest list, I don't know." said Biggles, as they snagged a drink each from a passing waiter. "It's a nice idea, but I've really got better things I should be doing than standing around gassing to a load of brass hats."

"Mind how you talk, Bigglesworth," the smooth voice of Air Commodore Raymond entered the conversation along with the man himself, a small smile playing about his lips, "a lot of the, er…'brass hats' can hear you."

Biggles stiffened. "Sorry, sir, a slip of the tongue."

"No, I quite agree," the Air Commodore continued, "I'd much rather be at home with my wife, quietly contemplating the fire."

"If you don't mind me asking, why _are_ you here then, sir?" Algy put in.

"My invite wasn't so much an _invite_ , but an order." Raymond grimaced. "'You will attend the cocktail party'. However, it presented an opportunity for a nice evening out."

"Mrs Raymond is here then, sir?"

"Yes, talking to Mr Hughes, as it would happen. They seem to have found something in common." Raymond smiled at the look on Biggles and Algy's faces. "My wife is quite the worldly woman, gentlemen."

"I don’t doubt it." Biggles said, giving a small glare to Algy, who stifled a chuckle in his drink.

On the other side of the room, near the bar, Ferocity, Tug, and Tex had discovered a pair of WAAFs who were interested in talking. Tex seemed to be leading the conversation with Chloe, a tall blonde, his arm jauntily perched on the bar with a drink in hand. Ferocity recounted one of their recent non-classified adventures to Martha, a brunette of about his own height. Tug added details occasionally, but whenever Martha laughed, he went rather quiet, sipping his drink. As Tex slipped off to dance, Chloe on his arm, and Martha tapped off to powder her nose, Ferocity turned to his friend.

"Why do you keep shutting up at the best bits?" he asked hotly, "You're spoiling my tale."

"It's not- deliberate." Tug hastened to explain. "You seem to be…handling it, and I need to drink."

Ferocity half rolled his eyes, feeling that he knew what Tug really meant. Martha reappeared a minute later, but before Ferocity's tale had ended, Martha stood up a little straighter.

"I love this tune." she said, listening intently.

Tug felt an elbow in his ribs, and felt his face going red. Nobody said anything for a minute, before Ferocity intervened.

"Care to dance?"

"I'd love to!" Martha said with a smile, and was whirled away onto the dance floor.

The rest of the night saw similar incidents repeated, and although Tug joined in with more of the talking, he blushingly avoided several more opportunities that Ferocity gave him to try and dance with Martha. At twenty-five past ten, when Algy was starting to gather people up, Tug allowed himself to be ushered to the waiting tenders. Ferocity started to go with him, but remembered at the last minute- this was a perfect opportunity. Excusing himself on a bathroom-related pretext, he hurried back to the bar, but Martha was gone. He just caught sight of a skirt disappearing out a door, and ran after it- but found that it was Chloe.

"Have you seen Martha?" he asked, slightly breathless.

"Not for a couple of- oh, here she comes now!" she pointed, and Ferocity walked over to her.

"Ferocity, aren't you meant to be leaving?" she greeted, smiling.

"I am, but- there's a- question, I'd like to ask you." He stuttered.

Martha raised her eyebrows expectantly. "Is it something to do with your shy companion?"

"Yes- well…yes. He really likes you," Ferocity tried to explain, "but he goes shy like that. But stupid, really, but I thought I'd…try and…help him out, as it were."

He was twisting his fingers nervously, but it seemed that Martha had got the idea. Taking out a small pad, she carefully wrote a couple of lines, then handed the page to Ferocity. "Tell him Merry Christmas from me." she said, winking, then joined Chloe and disappeared into the snowy night.

The tenders were on the point of leaving, but Ferocity just managed to slip into the last one in the line, tucking the paper into his tunic as he did.

"Where did you go?" Tug asked

"I just needed to get something," Ferocity said inconsequentially, "sorry for keeping you waiting."

The car pulled away, and Ferocity smiled to himself. Christmas for one person was going to be brighter than he'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> better late than never...!


	12. In The Mood

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MO9nzpZIoFk&list=PL2qifpWlEmD72ANJ90UQ6mmGKkcSHLv5D&index=21&t=0s)

* * *

Between the long journey back from London, lengthened by snow delays, and their midnight waking by Nick and his gifts*, it was nearly nine o'clock on Christmas Day when the pilots began stirring. Remembering the date, sleepy utterances of 'Merry Christmas' were exchanged, then Ginger took it one step further by sitting up, rubbing his eyes. Glancing around briefly, he saw a pillow case sitting at the end of his bed, a longish lump in the bottom. Tex and Ferocity had similar items at the ends of their beds. As none of them had left the pillow cases out, he wondered who exactly had had the idea. He had just reached down to see what it was when the door banged open, revealing the other three Flying Officers of the squadron.

"I've got a stocking, look you!" Taffy exclaimed, holding up a pillowcase of his own.

"Don't sound so surprised, I knew someone somewhere must like you." Tex grinned, probing his parcel.

Ginger had opened his by now, and was staring in mild awe at a small comic. "Who sent this?" he asked, smiling.

"I'm not sure, but they seem to know us well." Tug chuckled, looking at his own magazine.

Across the corridor, Algy knocked on Biggles’ door, and when it was opened, held up a pillowcase with a slightly sarcastic smile. It dropped away when he saw that Biggles had one of his own.

"I thought- I thought you'd put this out!" Algy said, surprised.

"Me? No fear.” Biggles replied. “I don't know who it was, but they've done well." Biggles continued, holding up a thin magazine of famous records and figures of aviation.

Going into the corridor, they were met first by Bertie.

"Looks like I've got a good fairy somewhere, what?" He smiled, holding up a small hunting pictures album.

Angus joined them a second later, also brandishing a magazine, but before they could find out what it was, a hoard of Flying Officers tumbled from Ginger, Tex, and Ferocity's room.

"Look, someone put- oh, you've got them too!" Ginger exclaimed, looking around the flight commanders.

His eyes eventually rested on Biggles, who was looking just as bewildered yet happy as his officers. As everyone laughed, none of them noticed Toddy slipping downstairs, a smile on his face, off to tell the aircrew how well their plan had gone.

When the pilots eventually appeared downstairs, it was to find a handful of colourfully-wrapped gifts lying under their slightly listing Christmas tree.

Ginger took the task of handing out the presents. Tex, Henry, and Tug were frisbeed envelopes, whilst Algy and Angus were handed roughly bottle-shaped presents with a little more care. Ferocity received a rather lumpy envelope, Bertie and Biggles got palm-sized packages, and Ginger and Taffy were left with a medium box each. The mess fell silent, save for the scrunching sound of wrapping paper. Angus was the first to open his parcel.

"Whiskey!" He exclaimed, looking in awe at the bottle in his hands, then ran his eyes around the assembled crowd. "Whoever managed to get their hands on this, well done, and thank you!"

Ginger smiled as he turned away, opening his own box. Inside, after a layer of tissue paper, he extracted a detailed, unpainted, wooden model of-

"A spitfire!" He admired the model from every angle.

Tug leant over his shoulder in passing. "Nice. Maybe a bit shabby around the tail, though.”

“No, it’s amazing!” Ginger countered, “And it looks handmade…” Ginger trailed off, still examining the model, and Tug walked to a seat, smiling.

Opening his envelope, he took out a single small sheaf of paper. Unfolding it, he read the short message, and let out a small laugh.

"Good present?" Ferocity enquired, nonchalantly.

"It's- well- I'll be back in a minute."

Tug jumped up and left the room, headed for the telephone. Pleased that everything had gone to plan, Ferocity returned to his own gift.

Opening his envelope, he saw that it contained a map- one of the new ones. There were also a handful of small chocolates, which he browsed on whilst looking over the map. He had a suspicion who had got it for him, but kept it to himself, thankful for the gift.

Bertie smiled, and opened his own present. Out of the wrapping paper fell a gold-edged eyeglass, which he immediately baptised with a good polish.

Taffy chuckled, both from Bertie’s reaction, and the box he had just opened. It contained several lumps of toffee, curled into a myriad of shapes by a process he knew well: Taffy-making. Sampling one, they tasted just as they should, and he wondered how his gifter had got hold of the real article.

On the other side of the room, Henry opened his envelope slowly, but almost whooped when he took out two tickets to the latest London show. The note that fluttered into his lap read 'For yourself and Margaret' in a fairly familiar hand. As he went to see if Tug was off the phone yet, Angus smiled, sipping a small glass of his present.

Tex opened his envelope with interest, which quickly turned to a broad smile when he saw the paper that fluttered out: a twenty-four-hour pass. A note was scribbled in the corner, in a messy script: ‘Maybe you’ll get to make the most of it this time’. The words had the feel of a smile behind them.

Biggles reclined in his armchair and unwrapped a small, smooth, silver cuboid, examining it with a smile. After using it to light his first cigarette of the day, he looked properly at the inscriptions on the lighter, the full significance of the Spitfire coming to him.

Algy, at the back, sipped from a glass of his favourite drink, and smiled. He loved his gift, and had received exactly what he'd asked for- he'd drawn himself in the initial stakes. Unwilling to ruin the atmosphere, he’d elected not to swap.

As the names of giftees had still not been revealed by general consent, there was a lot of general thanking going on, and well-aimed smiles. Slightly belatedly, Toddy appeared in the doorway, calling their attention. He'd been delayed by the unexpected appearance of a certain sweet treat on his desk, courtesy of an unknown friend- but he had his suspicions.

"Sirs, it's just about time to start on Christmas lunch." He announced, smiling.

Several exchanges of 'Merry Christmas!' happened as the officers filed through the door, headed to the traditional serving of the NCOs Christmas Lunch by the officers. Now thoroughly in the mood, everyone was satisfied that this version of the big day was as good as, if not better than, normal Christmases. Although they hadn’t had their usual letters and packages from home, each had discovered that they truly had a second family in the squadron, the close-knit bunch that they were.

* * *

*see [The Night Before Christmas](https://bigglesforum.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=56&t=1479) (hosted by the Biggles Forum)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats all, folks
> 
> All that's left to do is to thank you for reading, and wish you a Merry Christmas! :D

**Author's Note:**

> here we are! the christmas work!
> 
> I'm sorry for not finishing Inktober, but stuff piled up and I didn't have time :'/. However, hopefully this will get everyone into the festive mood :D


End file.
